


Flowers

by betsy_borst



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, I really don't know what tags to use, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sad, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betsy_borst/pseuds/betsy_borst
Summary: Mamma always smelled of irises. I no longer remember what she looked like, but I will never forget her smell.





	Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> The story of Adèle, the most neglected character in Jane Eyre. I originally wrote this for a college lit class, but it's gone through a number of edits since then. I will fully admit that I haven't read JE in years, so there might be canon divergence.

Mamma always smelled of irises. I no longer remember what she looked like, but I will never forget her smell.  
The early years of my life are a blur of laughter and movement. Mamma didn’t know mathematics or science, but her voice could stop the world. She taught me to sing and dance, skills that allowed hold any man in the palm of her hand, she said. She called me her belle l’iris. Her fellow dancers showered me with kisses; her gentlemen friends pinched my cheeks and told me I would grow up to be just like her. That was all my six year old self wanted in the world.  
  
Mamma told me to not mention these other gentlemen friends to him.  
  
One of my first memories of him is his return from a trip. Later, but still much too early to know of things such as these, mamma told me that he had gone to visit another one of “his girls”. He brought me a flower all the way from Italy, pressed with care into a book of the different flowers of Europe. He gave it to me, calling me his petit fleur. When he and mamma were happy, I was his little flower. The night that mama’s other gentleman friend visited and he saw them together, I was the French brat. I didn’t understand what that meant.  
  
He was prone to long disappearances even then, even when he and mamma were happy. I do think mamma loved him. There were other men, but she spoke of him the most, and he adored us. He brought me a flower each time he visited. I had a book full of them and cherished each one.  
  
Mamma disappeared on a Tuesday. One of her friends showed up at the door, and mamma said she was going away for a little while. I clung to her, begged for her to let me go with her. She told me une fille couldn’t go with her, that I was too young, that one day I might understand. On Thursday, I went to Madame Frederic’s house and asked if she knew where mamma was. She told me she had gone to the Holy Virgin, and I would live with her now. She and her husband were kind, but not used to having a child around. They were strict and yelled at me if I did something wrong. I tried not to, but I was used to mamma’s lack of rules.  
  
One day, he showed up and told me he would take me away if I wanted. I ran and hugged him, but felt nothing in return. I asked him if he had a flower for me. He didn’t answer, just repeated that I could go with him if he wanted. I tried to ask him about mamma, but he silenced me again. While we were leaving, he hired Sophie so he wouldn’t have to deal with my “froggy peculiarities”. I didn’t know what that meant.  
  
It took three days to cross the sea. He said were it not for the rough waters, it would be faster. I didn’t care. Sophie was scared, but I trusted him to protect me. By the second day, none of us could eat. We lay in our beds, hoping for peace lost on the rolling sea. Even so, it was still an adventure to my simple eight year old mind. All I knew of our destination was that he called it England. Sophie knew as much as me. In truth, she was not much older than I. Her family had no money for her dowry, making her ideal to cross the sea and be my nurse. She was uneducated, which he never bothered to remedy. My English was horribly limited when we left, and she knew even less than I. She spent much of the sea trip crying, praying, or doing both at the same time.  
  
It was cold when we arrived at Thornfield. I tried to huddle in his side, but he had no warmth to be found. Upon our arrival, he introduced me to Ms. Fairfax, and promptly stuck myself and Sophie in a room without a word. I loved that he had brought me with him, but the house was large and dark, and none of the servants could speak to me. The next morning when I woke, he was gone.  
  
His departures shattered my heart; his return gave breath to my lungs. No matter how often he left, I always waited eagerly for his return. He was gone for many of my first months at Thornfield. He would pop up for a handful of days, but disappear just as quickly. Every time he returned, I begged for presents, hoping for a flower that never came. He gave me dresses, dolls, toys, anything you could think of. The gifts came from all over Europe, and any other girl would love to receive them. They weren’t what I wanted. He never called me his petit fleur anymore. He tolerated me, out of some sense of responsibility.  
  
I tried to give him flowers I found in the Thornfield garden. I would press them how he had taught me and put them in his room for him to find. I spent hours on my hands and knees searching for perfect, unblemished flowers. He never even acknowledged them. One day Ms. Fairfax saw me putting a flower in his room and yelled at me. She hadn’t bothered to learn my language, but I didn’t need to know English to understand her meaning. I never brought him another flower, but went into his room once more to see if he had kept them. I searched for 10 minutes before finding them shoved under his mattress, ripped and crumpled. I never entered his room again.  
  
Then Ms. Eyre showed up.  
  
The first sentence she spoke to me in French was a revelation. “Quel âge avez-vous?” It had felt like years since someone besides Sophie spoke my native tongue, aside from the rare moments he spoke to me. I squeaked out “Huit” in my surprise.  
  
She continued to speak with me in French and I came back to life. No one else in this house asked me about myself. Sophie knew everything about me, and Ms. Fairfax didn’t understand anything I said besides oui and no. Ms. Eyre asked endless questions, and I told her all about mamma. Mamma had taught me to be an entertainer, so I sang for her. I could see the judgmental look in Mrs. Fairfax’s eye, but all I cared about was Ms. Eyre’s approval. In a few short minutes, I cared for her more than anyone- except him.  
  
Ms. Eyre was to teach me, and I wanted to learn. She was kind, always willing to repeat something that I did not understand. She was willing to let me play outside for part of the day, as well as letting me dance and sing for her. She taught me English, arithmetic, science, and my favorite: drawing. I always drew flowers.  
When he first brought me to Thornfield, I didn’t know enough English to understand what he said about me to Ms. Fairfax and Ms. Eyre. I tried hard in my lessons, hoping I could impress him. In the end, learning English only taught me what “not bright” and “no talents” meant.  
  
I could hear the whispers. I was young, not deaf. Adults never do understand what children pick up on. Looking back, I can guess what they said about me. I was keenly aware that he too heard the whispers. He never touched me when his friends visited. didn’t understand what “bastard” meant, but the look on his face when he heard it taught me all I needed to know. I tried to make it up for him by giving him all my heart. It was never enough.  
  
I wanted to impress his friends. I didn’t want to ask to meet them since he seemed particularly agitated, but Ms. Fairfax stepped in, and he allowed Ms. Eyre and me to join his guests in the drawing room. If his friends liked me, maybe he, Ms. Eyre, and I would become a family.  
  
As we waited, I noticed crocus’ sitting on an end table. The first flower he had ever given me was a crocus. I asked Ms. Eyre if I could wear it on my dress, which she allowed. I was sure that if I was on my best behavior and he saw me wearing it, he would remember that happier time. To my dismay, he barely even noticed me, much less my dress.  
  
Adults may underestimate how much children see, but a blind man would have noticed that Ms. Ingram hated me. I overheard Ms. Fairfax say to Ms. Eyre that Ms. Ingram desired to marry him. What would happen to me if they married? Ms. Eyre had let it slip that she had already tried to send me away to school. Would he let her do that? I tried to earn Ms. Ingram’s affection by giving her a flower, one of my favorites, brought all the way from home. But when I approached her, the flower carried carefully behind my back, she sent me away before I could say a word. She called me things like “monkey” that I didn’t understand. I understood Ms. Eyre’s reaction.  
  
Then he decided to marry Ms. Eyre.  
  
That was the first time I saw him smile and laugh since mamma died. His happiness was even directed to me as well. I was happy for their happiness, but why couldn’t I please him as Ms. Eyre did? Why did he love her more than me? What had I done to him to earn his hate? Each time I tried to make him love me, he ignored me more. He wanted to spend all of his time with Ms. Eyre, and she felt the same. I had lived without his love for years and knew I could survive that, but he was taking away Ms. Eyre from me, and she didn’t even seem to care.  
  
I thought Ms. Eyre leaving might actually kill me. I had learned so much, and she loved me as unconditionally as no one besides my mother had. After she left, he refused to find me another governess. He was inconsolable. I cared about him just as much as Ms. Eyre, maybe even more. I never said mean things to him, and never would have left his side, but he didn’t care. I tried to show him I could make him happy. Ms. Fairfax took pity and helped me make presents for him again. I once again searched for the prettiest flowers in the garden. But whenever I tried to give them to him, he would toss them to the side, or refuse to even take them.  
  
He soon followed Ms. Ingram’s advice and sent me to boarding school.  
  
I hated it. Ms. Eyre had told me stories about the school she attended at my age, and I hadn’t believed her, thinking she was trying to scare me. But I was sure the school he sent me to was even worse. I couldn’t sing or dance, and I was punished for speaking French.  
  
My only consolation was Fiorella. She was the same age as I and also from “the continent”, as our teachers were prone to snap at us. She and her mother were from Italy. Her mother cleaned the school, and the headmaster allowed Fiorella to attend. She hadn’t had a governess to teach her English, and could hardly communicate at all with anyone besides her mother and myself. When she arrived, she was the only student they disliked more than I, but we soon were equally hated in their eyes. We spent every moment possible outside, looking for flowers. While they were scarce, I had my book of flowers and taught her all about the different types and how they grew. She taught me Italian in whispers, so as not to earn a punishment.  
  
Fiorella left only one short month after I got there. Her mother found a job in Devonshire. On my last day with her, I gave her a pressed flower from my book. Most of them were crushed or ripped from the years of travel, but I wanted her to have one so she would remember me.  
  
After she left, I snuck out every day during supper to walk outside. I didn’t care if I was caught. With Fiorella gone, the last happiness of my life evaporated. Ms. Eyre abandoned me, he rejected me, and no one at my school even noticed if I disappeared. I was as alone as anyone in the world could be. As I walked along the side of the building, thinking I ought to run away from everyone and everything, my eye caught sight of something bright and white in the otherwise grey landscape. Most of the plants on the grounds were dead or dying, and it felt like years since I had seen something with such vibrant life. I knelt down to the solitary white rose growing in a crack alongside the building. I wanted to press it into my book and keep it forever, but I decided to leave it in the hopes that it might inspire other flowers to follow its example.  
  
I visited my flower every day for two weeks. Some days my absence was noticed and I was punished, but it never stopped me from going out as soon as possible to see it again. I planned to press it into my book in November to save it from dying in the cold. One day when I went out, it was gone. There was nothing left of it, and no sign of anyone taking it. It was just… gone. I asked all the girls if it was them, but they didn’t seem to even know it existed. It had disappeared without any trace.  
  
Ms. Eyre arrived the next day. This time when I hugged my savior, my love and affection was returned. I held her hand the entire time she was there, fearful that she would disappear like the flower if I let go.  
  
I was shocked to learn of Thornfield burning down. I could barely remember France, and all my childhood with Ms. Eyre and him as well were lost. He had not even bothered to tell me.  
  
If I thought that my absence may have endeared me to him, I was mistaken. I was horrified to discover his blindness, but at least he couldn’t see that I was no longer beautiful, having lost weight and happiness at my school. He claimed happiness at my return, but all of his heart existed for Ms. Eyre. Nothing had changed, save that Ms. Eyre lived solely for him. She attempted to continue my education, but it was painfully obvious that she was not happy when she was apart from him.  
When she told me she was sending me to another school, I ran into the forest and wept. For the umpteenth time in my life, I considered running away. Upon my return, Ms. Eyre was nowhere to be found. Had she run away and left me with him? I couldn’t tell if the thought excited me or terrified me. I found him alone at a table set for two. With his blindness, he could not have done it on his own. He looked towards the sound of my steps and asked me to join him. At the table setting across from him, a small vase held an iris- mamma’s favorite flower.  
  
That dinner was the first time we truly conversed since he brought me to England. We talked about mamma, and I finally felt like I truly was his daughter. By now, I understood what people meant when they called me a bastard, but at that table I felt his warmth for the first time in years. At the end of the meal, as I thought my heart would burst from fullness, he told me Ms. Eyre couldn’t take care of me anymore. I tried to hold it in, but hot tears escaped my eyes. I hadn’t cried in front of him since the first time he left me at Thornfield all those years ago.  
  
The second school I was sent to was better than the first. Ms. Eyre did visit many times. The teachers were kind, but still did not let me speak French. When I told this to Ms. Eyre, she told me that I ought to accept this and accept that I was English now. On the rare occasion I saw him while I was at school, he was happy when I spoke to him in English, and cold when I slipped into my mother tongue.  
  
I didn’t understand why he still couldn’t love me as I was.  
  
I spent some time with them after I finished school, but by then, I had realized how cruel he had been to me. While he raised me and paid for my care when he did not have to, that was not what I had needed as a small child. I needed a parent; I needed love; I needed warmth. I had done everything in my power, showered him with affection, with presents, with learning, yet he never once even told me he loved me.  
  
I left their home when I was 20 years old. By then, there was only one sunflower left in the book he had given me all those years ago. I considered leaving it behind, but tucked it into a safe corner of my bag at the last moment. I moved to the White Cliffs, where, on a clear day, I could see my home country. I became the teacher for the handful of French families in town. No matter how many people had tried to break me of it, French remained my natural tongue. I taught my students to sing and dance the same way mamma taught me. By teaching, I understood the love that Ms. Eyre had for me.  
  
I remained in communication with Ms. Eyre. At the end of each letter, she would tell me how he was doing. As much as I tried not to let him control my emotions, I wept when she told me they had a child. He now had a legitimate child who no one would whisper about. I likely never crossed his mind. I stayed in contact with Ms. Eyre until she died, and traveled back for her funeral, never speaking with him while I was there. While I wept for the loss of the closest thing to a mother I had, I no longer existed in his world. I returned to Dover immediately following the funeral and never left my town again. When people asked of my lineage, I told them my mother died when I was young and that I never had a father. I suppose I never really did. His son sent me a letter when he died months after Ms. Eyre. I threw it and the last flower from my book over the cliff and never again spoke to his family.  
  
I never married. Dover was quite small, with few marriageable men. I never again felt the intense love I had for him as a child. I received a marriage proposal from a very respectable man, but did not want to ever feel let down like that again.  
  
My students were enough. I watched them grow and find their own loves and passions. I received more joy from their companionship than I could have from any marriage. When they had their hearts broken by those they loved, I was there to hold them and wipe their tears. Many women wronged by the men in their lives returned to me and Dover, and my school grew with the town. They taught alongside me, gave me companionship, and now, as my time on this earth is ending, they sit by my side and keep me company. I tell them of mamma, of Ms. Fairfax, of Sophie, of Ms. Eyre. I tell them about all the flowers in my life, of my mother’s iris perfume, of the white rose that saved my life. I do not tell them of him. 

When I pass on, they will plant an iris on my grave.


End file.
